


Roles and Recompense

by TheDweeb



Series: FFXIVWrite2018 [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 17:57:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18945997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDweeb/pseuds/TheDweeb
Summary: Everyone called him a hero, but right now he did not feel like one...





	Roles and Recompense

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 2 of FFXIVWrite2018

To be an adventurer was to live a life of freedom, or so he had been told. In a way it was freeing being able to wander where he wanted without having to seek permission. All that kept him from leaving Point A for Point B was gil and there was plenty of work to be had to obtain it. Even with the constraints that came with becoming the apparent Warrior of Light, he still had more freedom than most to go where he pleased–and pray there was no crisis when he got there. What no one had told him, however, was that adventure also brought with it regret.

Sitting in the quiet of the Recompense, Artevael quietly watched people come and go, paying respect to and shedding tears for the loved ones they had lost. It was a solemn place, a tomb carved into the mountain where the dead could be cradled by the earth until recompense had been paid for their deaths. Then, he posited, Rhalgr would accept their spirits and they could finally rest. He had made sure Garlemald paid in full.

He sat up straighter when a young woman walked in, child in her arms. She stopped at a particular mound and, in a feat of strength only a mother could achieve, she knelt before it with her child still held. Regret stabbed his heart, sure and true as any cut Zenos had dealt him during their final duel, and he wanted to reach out. Regret stayed his hand, lodged the words in his throat like a nix that had literally bitten off more than it could chew. What right did he have to say anything to her, really?

“I remember him talking about you,” she said, and he jumped, ears pointed high and tail raised like a snake ready to strike. “He often spoke of how you helped his friends in Quarrymill. ‘A good man, willing to help others without a thought to payment; a hero,’ he said. You really left a mark on him.”

Hero. The word stung, but if he closed his eyes he would see that smile again and he could not bear it; not right then. His posture went lax as his ears laid flat, his eyes looking everywhere but the woman and her child. In his avoidance, he missed her smile; gentle, kind, and sad.

“I was angry the last time we met. It was not directed at you, I hope you know that.”

“Far be it from me to take offense even if it was,” he replied. “We all experience grief, but we hardly react the same way to it.”

Grief had Lyse don a mask, leave flowers as offering, and fight a revolution. Grief made Thancred pensive when he was not finding some way to keep himself busy. Grief had sent Alisae on a mad crusade for cruel truths. His own grief had turned him into someone unrecognizable until duty and vengeance had united in a single goal. If her grief required her to be angry at someone, he would have accepted it, and he had.

“And I’m far from a hero,” he added, his voice quieter now and eyes downcast.

Heroes were the stuff of legends. They were infallible, invincible, and heroes did not let people die. He was merely Artevael, a man who had taken the surname of a legend to protect his family and was doing a poor job of living up to it. That his actions had saved more lives than what were lost was inconsequential when so many times he had been right there and still could do nothing. Meffrid was just one of many regrets he had not been prepared for.

“Well, heroes don’t get to decide whether they are one or not.”

A pair of sandaled feet came into view but he did not lift his head. It was not until he felt a hand on top of his head that he looked up to find two pairs of eyes looking at him. One was the wide-eyed stare of a babe seeing everything for the first time. The other was the tired tenderness of a mother’s gaze and that of someone who might not have shared his grief but saw the shadows. He had not even realized he had tears in his eyes until she gently wiped them away before placing a kiss right between his ears.

“We’re all just people doing what we can to get by, but you’ve chosen to put yourself in service for others. You are the weapon for those who cannot fight, the light by which others are guided into doing something good, and the voice for those no longer able to speak. Once, you were just an adventurer helping the people of Quarrymill. Either way, you’ve been a hero to someone even if you don’t consider yourself such.”

With one final glance at the mound over her shoulder, she switched the babe from one hip to the other then made her way to the tunnel. He listened until her footfalls on the dirt and rock became silence and then he looked about. The Warrior of Light was the spear of Hydalen, a beacon of light for the people, but he was also just Artevael. But, perhaps a simple farm boy from the La Noscean coast could carry on the voices of those silenced by cruelty’s hands. And perhaps he ought to be satisfied by that. Perhaps one day the silence would no longer be deafening.


End file.
